Ruth Rendell - A Demon in My View

Arthur heard quite clearly the sound of the phone dial being spun. A lot of digits, not just the seven for London. And presently a lot of coins inserted …

Anthony Johnson’s voice: “I’m taking it that the coast is clear, he’s not listening on the extension and he won’t come up here and shoot me in the morning.” A pause. Then, “Of course I’m teasing you, my love. The whole business is sick.” Arthur listened intently. “I had your letter. Darling, I need footnotes. You must be the only married lady who’s ever quoted The Pilgrim’s Progress in a letter to her lover. It was Grace Abounding? Then I do need footnotes.” A long, long pause. Anthony Johnson cursed, obviously because he had to put more money in.

“Shall I transfer the charges? No, of course I won’t. Roger would see it on the bill and so on and so on.” Silence. Laughter. Another silence. Then: “Term starts a week today, but I’ll only be going to a few lectures that touch on my subject. I’m here most of the time, working and—well, thinking, I suppose. Go out in the evenings? Lovey, where would I go and who would I go with?”

Arthur closed his door, doing this in the totally silent way he had cultivated by long practice.

5

————

The air of West Kenbourne, never sweet, stank of rubbish. Sacks and bags and crates of rubbish made a wall along the pavement edge between the Waterlily and Kemal’s Kebab House. Factory refuse and kitchen waste, leaking from broken cardboard boxes, cluttered Oriel Mews, and in Trinity Road the household garbage simmered, reeking, in the sultry sunlight.

“And we’ve only got one little dustbin,” Arthur said peevishly to Stanley Caspian.

“Wouldn’t make any difference if we’d got ten, they’d be full up now. Can’t you put your muck in one of those black bags the council sent round?”

Arthur changed his tack. “It’s the principle of the thing. If these men insist on striking, other arrangements should be made. I pay my rates, I’ve got a right to have my waste disposed of. I shall write to the local authority. They might take notice of a strongly worded letter from a ratepayer.”

“Pigs might fly if they’d got wings and then we shouldn’t have any more pork.” Stanley roared with laughter. “Which reminds me, I’m starving. Put the kettle on, me old Arthur.” He opened a bag of peanuts and another of hamburger-flavoured potato crisps. “How’s the new chap settling in?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Arthur. “You know I keep myself to myself.”

He made Stanley’s coffee, asked for his envelope, and went back upstairs. The idea of discussing Anthony Johnson was distasteful to him, and this was partly because any conversation in the hall might easily be overheard in Room 2. Stanley Caspian, of course, would be indifferent to that. Arthur wished he too could be indifferent, but there had crept upon him in the past few days a feeling that he must ingratiate himself with Anthony Johnson, not on any account offend him or win his displeasure. He now rather regretted his sharp words about the imprecise addressing of letters. Vague notions of having to become friendly —the very word distressed him—with Anthony Johnson were forming in his mind. For in this way he might perhaps persuade Anthony Johnson to draw his curtains when his light was on, or provide himself with a Venetian blind as an ostensible heat-retaining measure (Stanley Caspian would never provide one) or even succeed—and this would take much subtle and weary work—in convincing him that he, Arthur, had some legitimate occupation in the cellar, developing photographs, for instance, or doing carpentry.

But as he gathered up his laundry and stuffed it into the orange plastic carrier, he felt a fretful dismay. He didn’t want to get involved with the man, he didn’t want to get involved with anyone. How upsetting it was to have to know people, and how unnecessary it had been for twenty years!

The psychopath is asocial—more than that, he is in positive conflict with society. Atavistic desires and a craving for excitement drive him. Self-centred, impulsive, he disregards society’s taboos .… Anthony had been making notes all the morning, but now as he heard Stanley Caspian leave the house, he laid down his pen. Was there any point in beginning on his thesis before he had attended that particular lecture on criminology? On the other hand, there was so little else to do. The music from upstairs, which had been hindering his concentration for the past half-hour, now ceased and two doors slammed. So far he had met none of the other tenants but Arthur Johnson and, as fresh sound broke out, he went into the hall.

Two men were sitting on the stairs, presumably so that one of them, smallish with wild black hair, could do up his shoelaces. The other was chanting:

“Then trust me, there’s nothing like drinking,

So pleasant on this side the grave.

It keeps the unhappy from thinking,

And makes e’en the valiant more brave!”

Anthony said hallo.

His shoelaces tied, the small dark man came down the stairs, extended his hand and said in a facetious way, “Mr. Johnson, I presume?”

“That’s right. Anthony. The ‘other’ Johnson.”

This remark provoked laughter out of all proportion to its wit. “Put that on your doorbell, why don’t you? Brian Kotowsky at your service, and this is Jonathan Dean, the best pal a man ever had.”

Another hand, large, red and hairy, was thrust out. “We are about to give our right arms some exercise in a hostelry known to its habituates as the Lily, and were you to …”

“He means, come and have a drink.”

Anthony grinned and accepted, although he was already wondering if he would regret this encounter. Jonathan Dean slammed the front door behind them and remarked that this would shake old Caspian’s ceilings up a bit. They crossed Trinity Road and entered Oriel Mews, a cobbled passage whose cottages had all been converted into small factories and warehouses. The cobbles were coated with a smelly patina of potato peelings and coffee grounds, spilt from piled rubbish bags.

Anthony wrinkled his nose. “Have you lived here long?”

“For ever and a day, but I’m soon to depart.”

“Leaving me alone with that she-devil,” said Brian. “Without your moderating influence she’ll kill me, she’ll tear me to pieces.”

“Very right and proper. All the best marriages are like that. Not beds of roses but fields of battle. Look at Tolstoy, look at Lawrence.”

They were still looking at, and hotly discussing, Tolstoy and Lawrence, when they entered the Waterlily. It was crowded, smoky, and hot. Anthony bought the first round, the wisest measure if one wants to make an early escape. His tentative question had been intended as a preamble to another and now, in the first brief pause, he asked it.

“What is there to do in this place?”

“Drink,” said Jonathan simply.

“I don’t mean in here. I mean Kenbourne Vale.”

“Drink, dispute, make love.”

“There’s the Taj Mahal,” said Brian. “It used to be called the Odeon but now it only shows Indian films. Or there’s Radclyffe Park. They have concerts in Radclyffe Hall.”

“Christ,” said Jonathan. “Better make up your mind to it, Tony, there’s nothing to do but drink. This place, the Dalmatian, the Hospital Arms, the Grand Duke. What more do you want?”

But before Anthony could answer him, a woman had flung into the pub and was leaning over them, her fingers, whose nails were very dirty, pressed on the table top. She addressed Brian.

“What the hell are you doing, coming here without me?”

“You were asleep,” said Brian. “You were dead to the world.”